Finding Prose

I've always loved spilling my guts into a journal in the middle of the night. Writing has continuously found a way to sneak into my life unexpectedly, just like the feelings. Unexpected feelings spawn even more surprising words, and usually, I only need them to sting the page a little bit and echo in my own head, never to reach another soul. I usually have routine, work, play, love, mess, weekends, and weekdays, but once this quarantine came into play, I really only had myself to keep all of my mind in check. And that's when I started writing like a motherf*cker. I wrote another eight versions of the same unrequited love story that I can't seem to shake. I learned a few things on guitar and wrote a couple verses to a couple sad songs about growing up that I'll probably play for no one. Ever. I copied down some streams of consciousness about wanting/needing. Etc.

And after a while, I kind of wanted someone to notice. So I searched for outlets. And after a scam or two and a few websites that looked like deserted MySpace profiles filled with acrostic poems and pop-up ads for erotic anime games, I found Prose. So yeah.

If you're reading this, or have read anything else from me, thanks for letting me spill my guts.